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THE BOX OF GOD 



By Lew Saeett 
MANY MANY MOONS 



THE BOX OF GOD 



BY 

LEW SARETT 

Author of "Many Many Moons* 



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NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT & COMPANY 
1922 



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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

Printed September, 1922 



Printed in U. S. A. 

OCT 28 "22 

DC1A683925 



TO 

MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For the privilege of including in this book the 
title-poem, "The Box of God", the author is in- 
debted to the courtesy of the editors of Poetry: 
A Magazine of Verse, For permission to include 
many of the remaining poems in the volume, the 
author is grateful to the editors of the following : 
the North American Review; the Bookman; Con- 
temporary Verse; Adventure Magazine; the 
Lyric West; American Boy; Midland Magazine; 
Voices: A Journal of Verse; the New York Sun; 
the Boston Transcript; American Forestry; the 
Liberator; the Broom, 

L. S. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 
THE BOX OF GOD 

PAGE 

The Box of God 3 

I. Broken Bird 3 

II. Whistling Wings 9 

III. Talking Waters 17 

PART II 

GREEN ALTARS 

Wind in the Pine 21 

Teton Mountain 22 

Mesa-Mist 23 

The Red Dragoon 24 

Dust 27 

Sweetwater Range 29 

Leave Me to My Own 31 

Marching Pines 33 

Yellow Moon 34 

Timber-Line Cedar 35 

Whooping Crane 37 

Let Me Flower As I Will 38 

October Snow 40 

Indian Summer 41 

ix 



X CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Drouth 43 

Fisher of Stars 44 

Alkali Pool 46 

Old Oak 47 

Look for Me 48 



PART III 

RED GODS 

Thunderdrums 53 

I. The Drummers Sing 53 

II. Double-Bear Dances 54 

III. Jumping-River Dances ..... 55 

IV. Ghost-Wolf Dances 56 

V. Iron-Wind Dances 57 

VI. The Drummers Sing 58 

Indian Sleep-song 59 

To A Dead Pembina V/arrior 61 

Medals and Holes 63 

Fire-Bender Talks 66 

Maple-Sugar Chant . , . • ^ ,• . . 69 

Appendix ..... * * « « • . -75 



THE BOX OF GOD 



The Helen Haire Levinson Prize was awarded to 
the poem, "The Box of God," as the best contribution 
to Poetry: a Magazine of Verse, for the year 1921. 



PART I 

THE BOX OF GOD 



IN THE LAND OF k'tCHEE-GAH-MEE 



Lake Superior 
Flute-reed River 
Rainy Lake 
Lake-of'the-woods 



THE BOX OF GOD 

i: Broken Bird 

O broken bird, 
Whose whistling silver wings have known the lift 
Of high mysterious hands, and the wild sweet music 
Of big winds among the ultimate stars ! — 
The black robed cures put your pagan Indian 
Soul in their white man's House of God, to lay 
Upon your pagan lips new songs, to swell 
The chorus of amens and hallelujahs. 
In simple faith and holy zeal, they flung 
Aside the altar-tapestries, that you 
Might know the splendor of God's handiwork, 
The shining glory of His face. O eagle, 
Crippled of pinion, clipped of soaring wing, 
They brought you to a four-square box of God ; 
And they left you there to flutter against the bars 
In futile flying, to beat against the gates. 
To droop, to dream a little, and to die. 

Ah, Joe Shing-6b — by the sagamores revered 
As Spruce, the Conjurer, by the black-priests dubbed 
The Pagan Joe — ^how clearly I recall 
Your conversion in the Big-Knife's House of God, 
Your wonder when you faced its golden glories. 
Don't you remember ? — when first you sledged from out 

3 



4 THE BOX OF GOD 

The frozen Valley of the Sleepy-eye, 
And hammered on the gates of Fort Brazeau — 
To sing farewell to Ah-nah-quod, the Cloud, 
Sleeping, banked high with flowers, clothed in the pomp 
Of white man's borrowed garments in the church? 
Oh, how your heart, as a child's heart beating before 
High wonder-workings, thrilled at the burial splen- 
dor !— 
The coffin, shimmering-black as moonlit ice, 
And gleaming in a ring of waxen tapers ; 
After the chant of death, the long black robes, 
Blown by the wind and winding over the hills 
With slow black songs to the marked-out-place-of- 

death ; 
The solemn feet that moved along the road 
Behind the wagon-with-windows, the wagon-of -death, 
With its jingling silver harness, its dancing plumes. 
Oh, the shining splendor of that burial march. 
The round-eyed wonder of the village throng ! — 
And oh, the fierce-hot hunger, the burning envy 
That seared your soul when you beheld your friend 
Achieve such high distinction from the black-robes ! 

And later, when the cavalcade of priests 

Wound down from the fenced-in-ground, like a slow 

black worm 
Crawling upon the snow — don't you recall? — 
The meeting in the mission? — that night, your first 
In the white man's lodge of holy-medicine? 
How clearly I can see your hesitant step 
On the threshold of the church: within the door 



BROKEN BIRD c 

Your gasp of quick surprise, your breathless mouth ; 
Your eyes round- white before the ghmmering taper, 
The gold-filigreed censer, the altar hung 
With red rosettes and velvet soft as an otter's 
Pelt in the frost of autumn, with tinsel sparkling 
Like cold blue stars above the frozen snows. 
Oh, the blinding beauty of that House of God ! — 
Even the glittering bar at Jock McKay's, 
Tinkling with goblets of fiery devil's-spit. 
With dazzling vials and many-looking mirrors. 
Seemed lead against the silver of the mission. 

I hear again the chanting holy-men, 

The agents of the white man's Mighty Spirit, 

Making their talks with strong, smooth-moving tongues 

"Hear ! Hear ye, men of a pagan faith ! 
Forsake the idols of the heathen fathers. 
The too-many ghosts that walk upon the earth ; 
For there lie pain and sorrow, yea, and death! 



"Hear! Hear ye, men of a pagan faith! 
And grasp the friendly hands we offer you 
In kindly fellowship, warm hands and tender. 
Yea, hands that ever give and never take. 
Forswear the demon-charms of medicine men; 
Shatter the drums of conjuring Chee-sah-kee — 
Yea, beyond these walls lie bitterness and death ! 

"Pagans ! — ye men of a bastard birth ! — ^bend ; 
Bow ye, proud heads, before this hallowed shrine! 



6 THE BOX OF GOD 

Break! — ^break ye the knee beneath this roof, 
For within this house lives God ! Abide ye here ! 
Here shall your eyes behold His wizardry; 
Here shall ye find an everlasting peace." 

Ah, Joe the pagan, son of a bastard people, 

Child of a race of vanquished, outlawed children, 

Small wonder that you drooped your weary head, 

Blinding your eyes to the suns of elder days ; 

For hungry bellies look for new fat gods, 

And heavy heads seek newer, softer pillows. 

With you again I hear the eerie chants 

Floating from out the primal yesterdays — 

The low sweet song of the doctor's flute, the slow; 

Resonant boom of the basswood water-drum. 

The far voice of the fathers, calling, calling. 

I see again the struggle in your eyes — 

The hunted soul of a wild young grouse, afraid, 

Trembling beneath maternal wings, yet lured 

By the shrill whistle of the wheeling hawk. 

I see your shuffling limbs, hesitant, faltering 

Along the aisle — the drag of old bronzed hands 

Upon your moccasined feet, the forward tug 

Of others, soft and white, and very tender ; 

One forward step . . . another ... a quick look back !- 

Another step . . . another . . . and lo ! the eyes 

Flutter and droop before a flaming symbol. 

The strong knees break before a blazoned altar 

Glimmering its tapestries in the candle-light. 

The high head beaten down and bending before 

New wonder-working images of gold. 



BROKEN BIRD 7 

And thus the black-robes brought you into the house 
Wherein they kept their God, a house of logs, 
Square-hewn, and thirty feet by forty. They strove 
To put before you food and purple trappings — 
Oh, how they walked you up and down in the vestry 
Proudly resplendent in your white man's raiment, 
Glittering and gorgeous, the envy of your tribe: 
Your stiff silk hat, your scarlet sash, your shoes 
Shining and squeaking gloriously with newness ! 
Yet even unto the end — those blood-stained nights 
Of the sickness-on-the-lung ; that bitter day 
On the Barking-rock, when I packed you down from 

camp 
At Split-hand Falls to the fort at Sleepy-eye ; 
While, drop by drop, your life went trickling out. 
As sugar-sap that drips on the birch-bark bucket 
And finally chills in the withered maple heart 
At frozen dusk: even unto the end — 
When the mission doctor, framed by guttering candles. 
Hollowly tapped his hooked-horn finger here 
And there upon your bony breast, like a wood-bird 
Pecking and drumming on a rotten trunk — 
Even unto this end I never knew 
Which part of you v/as offering the holy prayers — 
The chanting mouth, or the eyes that gazed beyond 
The walls to a far land of windy valleys. 
And sometimes, when your dry slow lips were moving 
To perfumed psalms, I could almost, almost see 
Your pagan soul aleap in the fire-light, naked, 
Shuffling along to booming medicine-drums, 
Shaking the flat black earth with moccasined feet, 



8 THE BOX OF GOD 

Dancing again — back among the jangling 

Bells and the stamping legs of gnarled old men — 

Back to the fathers calling, calling across 

Dead winds from the dim gray years. 

O high-flying eagle, 
Whose soul, wheeling among the sinuous winds, 
Has known the molten glory of the sun, 
The utter calm of dusk, and in the evening 
The lullabies of moonlit mountain waters ! — 
The black-priests locked you in their House of God, 
Behind great gates swung tight against the frightened 
Quivering aspens, whispering perturbed in council. 
And muttering as they tapped with timid fists 
Upon the doors and strove to follow you 
And hold you ; tight against the uneasy winds 
Wailing among the balsams, fumbling upon 
The latch with fretful fingers; tight against 
The crowding stars who pressed their troubled faces 
Against the windows. In honest faith and zeal, 
The black-robes put you in a box of God, 
To swell the broken chorus of amens 
And hallelujahs ; to flutter against the door. 
Crippled of pinion, bruised of head; to beat 
With futile flying against the gilded bars ; 
To droop, to dream a little, and to die. 



II ; Whistling Wings 

Shing-6b, companion of my old wild years 

In the land of K'tchee-gah-mee, my good right arm 

When we battled bloody-fisted in the storms 

And snows with rotting scurvy, with hunger raw 

And ravenous as the lusting tongues of wolves — 

My Joe, no longer will the ghostly mountains 

Echo your red-lunged laughters in the night; 

The gone lone days when we communed with God 

In the language of the waterfall and wind 

Have vanished with your basswood water-drum. 

Do you recall our cruise to Flute-reed Falls ? 
Our first together — oh, many moons ago — 
Before the cures built the village mission? 
How, banked against our camp-fire in the bush 
Of sugar-maples, we smoked kin-nik-kin-nik, 
And startled the somber buttes with round raw songs. 
With wails that mocked the lynx who cried all night 
As if her splitting limbs were torn with pain 
Of a terrible new litter ? How we talked 
Till dawn of the Indian's Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, 
The Mighty Spirit, and of the white man's God? — 
Don't you remember dusk at Cold-spring Hollow? — 
The beaver-pond at our feet, its ebony pool 
Wrinkled wih silver, placid, calm as death. 
Save for the fitful chug of the frog that flopped 

9 



10 THE BOX OF GOD 

His yellow jowls upon the lily-pad, 
And the quick wet slap of the tails of beaver hurrying 
Homeward across the furrowing waters, laden 
With cuttings of tender poplar . . . down in the swale 
The hermit-thrush who spilled his rivulet 
Of goldign tones into the purple seas 
Of gloam among the swamps . . , and in the East, 
Serene against the sky — do you remember? — 
Slumbering Mont du Pere, shouldering its crags 
Through crumpled clouds, rose-flushed with after- 
glow . . . 
And dew-lidded dusk that slipped among the valleys 
Soft as a blue wolf walking in thick wet moss. 
How we changed our ribald song for simple talk ! . . . 

"My frien', Ah-deek, you ask-um plenty hard question: 
Ugh! w'ere Kcctch-ie Md-ni-do he live? 
Were all dose Eenzhun spirits walk and talk? 
Me — I dunno! . . . Mebbe . . . mehhe over here, 
In beaver-pond, in frush, in gromping bullfrog; 
Mebbe over dere, he's sleeping in dose mountain. . . . 

Sh'Sh'Sh! , , . Look! — over dere — look, my frien' ! 
On Mont du Pere — he's moving little! . . . ain't? 
Under dose soft blue blanket she's falling down 
On hill and valley! Somebody — somebody's dere! 
In dose hill of Mont du Pere, sleeping . . . sleep- 
ing . . f 

And when the fingers of the sun, lingering, 
Slipped gently from the marble brow of the glacier 



WHISTLING WINGS ii 

Pillowed among the clouds, blue-veined and cool, 
How, one by one, like lamps that flicker up 
In a snow-bound hamlet in the valley, the stars 
Lighted their candles mirrored in the waters . . . 
And floating from the hills of Sleepy-eye, 
Soft as the wings of dusty-millers flying, 
The fitful syllables of the Baptism River 
Mumbling among its caverns hollowly, 
Shouldering its emerald sweep through cragged cas- 
cades 
In a flood of wafted foam, fragile, flimsy 
As luna-moths fluttering on a pool ... 

^'You hear dat. Caribou? . . . somebody's dere! . . . 
Ain't? — in dose hills of Mont du Pere — sleeping. 
Sh-sh-sh! You hear dose far 'way Flute-reed Falls? 
Somebody's dere in Mont du Pere, sleeping . . . 
Somebody he's in dere de whole night long . . . 
And w'ile he's sleep, he's talking little . . . talk-' 
ing . . ." 

Hush ! — don't you hear K'tchee-gah-mee at midnight ? — 
That stretched far out from the banks of Otter-slide 
To the dim wet rim of the world — North, East, West ? — 
The Big-water, calm, thick-flecked with the light of 

stars 
As the wind-riffled fur of silver fox in winter . . . 
The shuffle of the sands in the lapsing tide . . . 
The slow soft wash of waters on the pebbles . . . 

"Sh-sh-sh! . . . Look Ah-deek! — on K'tchee-gah-mee ! 



12 THE BOX OF GOD 

Somebody — somet'ing he's in dere . . . ain't? . . 
He's sleep w'ere black Big-water she's deep . . . Ho! 
In morning he's jump up from hees bed and race 
Wit' de wind; tonight he's sleeping . . . rolling little — 
Dreaming about hees woman , . . rolling . . . sleep- 
ing . . /' 

And later — ^you recall? — ^beyond the peaks 

That tusked the sky like fangs of a coyote snarling, 

The full-blown mellow moon that floated up 

Like a liquid-silver bubble from the waters, 

Serenely, till she pricked her delicate film 

On the slender splinter of a cloud, melted, 

And trickled from the silver-dripping edges. 

Oh, the splendor of that night ! . . . the Twin-fox stars 

That loped across the pine-ridge . . . Red Ah-nung, 

Blazing from out the cavern of the gloom 

Like the smouldering coal in the eye of carcajou . . . 

The star-dust in the valley of the sky, 

Flittering like glow-worms in a reedy meadow ! . . . 

^'Somebody's dere , . . He's walk-um in dose cloud . . . 
You see-umf Look! He's mak'-um for hees woman 
De w'ile she sleep, dose t'ing she want-um most — 
Blue dress for dancing! You see, my frien'f . . . 

ain't? 
He's t'rozving on de blanket of dose sky 
Dose plenty-plenty handfuls of w'ite stars; 
He's sewing on dose plenty teet' of elk, 
Dose shiny looking-glass and plenty beads. 
Somebody's dere . . . somet'ing he's in dere . . ." 



WHISTLING WINGS 13 

Thus the green moons went — and many many winters. 

Yet we held together, Joe, until our day 

Of falling leaves, like two split sticks of bur-oak 

Lashed tight with buckskin buried in the bark. 

Do you recollect our last long cruise together. 

To Hollow-bear, on our line of marten-traps? — 

When cold Bee-boan, the Winter-maker, hurdling 

The rim-rock ridge, shook out his snowy hair 

Before him on the wind and heaped up the hollows ? — 

Flanked by the drifts, our lean-to of toboggans. 

Our bed of pungent balsam, soft as down 

From the bosom of a whistling swan in autumn . . . 

Our steaming sledge-dogs buried in the snow-bank. 

Nuzzling their snouts beneath their tented tails. 

And dreaming of the paradise of dogs . . . 

Our fire of pine-boughs licking up the snow, 

And tilting at the shadows in the coulee . . . 

And you, rolled warm among the beaver-pelts, 

Forgetful of your sickness-on-the-lung. 

Of the fever-pains and coughs that racked your bones — 

You, beating a war song on your drum. 

And laughing as the scarlet-moccasined flames 

Danced on the coals and billowed up the sky. 

Don't you remember ? . . . the snowflakes drifting down 

Thick as the falling petals of wild plums . . . 

The clinker-ice and the scudding fluff of the whirlpool 

Muffling the summer-mumblings of the brook . . . 

The turbulent waterfall protesting against 

Such early winter-sleep, like a little boy 

Who struggles with the calamity of slumber. 



14 THE BOX OF GOD 

Knuckling his leaden lids and his tingling nose 
With a pudgy fist, and fretfully flinging back 
His snowy covers with his petulant fingers. 
Out on the windy barrens restless bands 
Of caribou, rumped up against the gale, 
Suddenly breaking before the rabid blast, 
Scampering off like tumbleweeds in a cyclone . . . 
The low of bulls from the hills where worried moose, 
Nibbling the willows, the wintergreens, the birches. 
Were yarding up in the sheltering alder -thicket . . . 
From the cedar wind-break, the bleat of calves wedged 

warm 
Against the bellies of their drowsy cows . . . 
And then the utter calm . . . the wide white drift 
That lay upon the world as still and ghastly 
As the winding-sheet of death . . . the sudden snap 
Of a dry twig . . . the groan of sheeted rivers 
Beating with naked hands upon the ice . . . 
The brooding night . . . the crackle of cold skies . . . 

*'Sh'Sh-sh! . . . Look, my frieii' — somebody's dere! 
Ain't? . . . over deref He's come from Land-of- 

W inter! 
Wit' quilt he's cover-um up dose baby mink, 
Dose cub, dose wild arbutus, dose jump-up- Johnny . . 
He's keep hees chil'ens warm for long, long winter . . 
Sh-sh-sh! . . . Somebody's dere on de w'ite savanne 
Somebody's dere! . . . He's walk-um in de timber . . 
He's cover-um up hees chil'ens, soft . . . soft . . . 

And later, when your bird-claw fingers rippled 



WHISTLING WINGS 15 

Over the holes of your cedar Bee-bee-gwun 
Mellowly in a tender tune, how the stars. 
Like little children trooping from their teepees. 
Danced with their nimble feet across the sky 
To the running-water music of your flute . . . 
And how, with twinkling heels they scurried off 
Before the Northern Light swaying, twisting, 
Spiralling like a slender silver smoke 
On the thin blue winds, and feeling out among 
The frightened starry children of the sky . . . 

''Look! — in de Land-of -Winter — something's dere! 
Somebody — he's reaching out hees hand! — for me! 
Ain't f . . . For me he's waiting. Somebody's dere! 
Somebody he's in dere, waiting . . . waiting . . /■' 

Don*t you remember? — ^the ghostly silence, splintered 

At last by a fist that cracked the hoary birch. 

By a swift black fist that shattered the brittle air, 

Splitting it into a million frosty fragments . . . 

And dreary Northwind, coughing in the snow. 

Spitting among the glistening sheeted pines. 

And moaning on the barrens among the bones 

Of gaunt white tamaracks mournful and forlorn . . . 

"Sh'Sh-sh-sh! . . . My Caribou! Somebody's dere! 
He's crying , . , little bit crazy in dose wind . . . 
Ain't f . . . You hear-um . . . far 'way . . . crying 
Lak my old woman w'en she's lose de baby 
And no can find-um — w'en she's running everywhere. 
Falling in snow, talking little bit crazy, 



i6 THE BOX OF GOD 

Calling and crying for shees little boy . . , 
Sh'Sh-shI . . . Something's dere — you hear-wm? . , • 

ain't? 
Somebody — somebody' s dere, crying . . . crying . , /' 

Then from the swale, where shadows pranced gro- 
tesquely 
Solemn, like phantom puppets on a string, 
A cry — pointed, brittle, perpendicular — 
As startling as a thin stiff blade of ice 
Laid swift and sharp on fever-burning flesh: 
The tremulous wail of a lonely shivering wolf, 
Piercing the world's great heart like an icy sword . . . 

"Look! , . . Quick! — Ah-deek! , . . Somebody's dere! 

Ain't? . . . He's come — he's come for me — for me! 

Me — me, I go! My Caribou — 

Dose fire — dose fire she's going out — she's cold . . . 

T'row — t'row on dose knots of pine . . . Mee-gwetch! 

And pull 'way from dose flame — dose pan of sour- 
dough. 

If you want eat — in de morning — damn-good flap- 
jack, 

"Sh-sh-sh-sh! Somet'ing's dere! . . . You hear-um? 

ain't? . . . 
Somebody — somebody's dere, calling . . . calling . . . 
I go / go — me! me I go , . , !' 



hi: Talking Waters 

O eagle whose whistling wings have known the lift 
Of high mysterious hands, and the wild sweet music 
Of big winds among the ultimate stars, 
The black-robes put you in a box of God, 
Seeking in honest faith and holy zeal 
To lay upon your lips new songs, to swell 
The chorus of amens and hallelujahs. 
O bundle of copper bones tossed in a hole. 
Here in the place-of-death — God's- fenced-in-ground !— 
Beneath these put-in-pines and waxen lilies, 
They placed you in a crimson gash in the hillside. 
Here on a bluff above the Sleepy-eye, 
Where the Baptism River, mumbling among the canyons, 
Shoulders its flood through crooning waterfalls 
In a mist of wafted foam fragile as petals 
Of windflowers blowing across the green of April; 
Where ghosts of wistful leaves go floating up 
In the rustling blaze of autumn, like silver smokes 
Slenderly twisting among the thin blue winds; 
Here in the great gray arms of Mont du Pere, 
Where the shy arbutus, the mink, and the Johnny- 
jump-up 
Huddle and whisper of a long, long winter ; 
Where stars, with soundless feet, come trooping up 

17 



i8 THE BOX OF GOD 

,To dance to the water-drums of white cascades — 
Where stars, like little children, go singing down 
The sky to the flute of the wind in the willow-tree — 
Somebody — somebody's there . . . O Pagan Joe . . . 
Can't you see Him ? as He moves among the mountains ? 
Where dusk, dew-lidded, slips among the valleys 
Soft as a blue wolf walking in thick wet moss? 
Look ! — my friend ! — at the breast of Mont du Pere ! . . . 
Sh-sh-sh-sh ! . . . Don't you hear His talking waters ? . . . 
Soft in the gloom as broken butterflies 
Hovering above a somber pool . . . Sh-sh-sh-sh! 
Somebody's there ... in the heart of Mont du Pere . . . 
Somebody — somebody's there, sleeping . . . sleeping . . . 



PART II 

GREEN ALTARS 



IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS I 

Shoshone National Forest 
Jackson's Hole 
Upper Yellowstone River 
Absaroka Range 



WIND IN THE PINE 

Oh, I can hear you, God, above the cry 

Of the tossing trees — 
Rolling your windy tides across the sky, 
And splashing your silver seas 
Over the pine, 
To the water-line 
Of the moon. 
Oh, I can hear you, God, 
Above the wail of the lonely loon — 
When the pine-tops pitch and nod — 

Chanting your melodies 
Of ghostly waterfalls and avalanches, 
Swashing your wind among the branches 
To make them pure and white. 

Wash over me, God, with your piney breeze. 
And your moon's wet-silver pool ; 

Wash over me, God, with your wind and night. 
And leave me clean and cool. 



21 



TETON MOUNTAIN 

She walks alone against the dusky sky, 

With something of the manner of a queen — 

Her gesturing peaks, imperious and high; 
Her snowy brow, serene. 

Under her feet, a tapestry of pine ; 

Veiling her marble figure, purple haze, 
Draped with a scarf of clouds at timber-line. 

In a billowy silken maze. 

And in the moonlight a spangled necklace shakes 
And shimmers silver-blue upon her shoulders — 

A fragile thread of crinkling brooks and lakes 
In the glimmering ice and boulders. 

Among her eagle-winged and starry host 
Of lovers, like an austere virgin nun. 

She broods — yielding a moment at the most. 
To the lips of the amorous sun. 



22 



MESA-MIST 

When the passion of the day is done, 

And the weary sun, 
Lingering above the calm plateau 

And mesa-waters, stains 
The cottonwoods and sleeping cranes 
With afterglow, 
Day keeps a fleeting tryst 
With Night in the mesa-mist. 
When her crimson arm embraces 
The clouds and plains 
No more, spent Day slips quietly to rest 
On a ghostly breast — 
And nothing remains. 
Save in the twilit places, 
The ghosts of rains 
And columbines whose wistful faces 
Droop where the purple-pollened fir 
Tinctures the dusk with lavender. 



23 



THE RED DRAGOON 

I 

Among the brittle needles of the pine, 

A crackling ember, casually flung — 

Spitting in the tinder of the soil . . . 

Writhing crimson vipers 

Redly licking at the leaves 

With flickering venomous tongues, 

Bellying into the amorous wind. 

And sinking red tusks in the flank of the night . 

II 

Lo! blazing mane and streaming bridle. 
Bursting out of the lurid hills, 
A stallion, 

A livid-crimson stallion, 
A lightning-pinioned stallion. 
Crashing out of the billowing smoke 
On a flaming crimson trail. 
A ghastly shriek in the canyon, 
An echoing moan in the pines, 
A wild red rush of flying feet, 
And a hand at the charger's bit. 
A flame-shod foot in the stirrup, 
24 



THE RED DRAGOON 25 

A phantom hand on the reins — 
And vaulting into the saddle, 
A rider in scarlet, 
A swaggering rider in scarlet, 
The ghost of a Red Dragoon ! 

A war-brawling wild cavalier. 
With a cackle sardonic and grim, 
A bite in his whistHng arrows, 
And a blight in his scorching breath. 
Careering he charges the timber 
With clouds of resin-hot lances. 
And he shouts a demoniac laughter 
When his blood-bleary eyes behold, 
Scurrying out of the riotous hills 
A rabble of shadowy things — 
Oh, the clatter of whistling deer. 
The patter of feet in the rushes. 
The bleat of the panting fawn! — 
Flung out of the timber like leaves, 
Like burning leaves in the wind 
Whirled over the hills and the valleys 
And out to the fringes of night . . . 

A bloody-lipped red cavalier! 
A blasphemous dread cavalier ! 
Galloping into the cloud-templed hills 
With a ribald song in his mouth. 
With a curse for the gray-bearded firs 
That complain of his searing breath — 
Sundering their boles with a molten fist. 



26 THE BOX OF GOD 

Cleaving their suppliant branches, 

With a jeer as they go to a thundering doom 

Enshrouded in bellowing flame, 

As they wing their gray souls 

On the spiralling smoke 

Up to the ultimate sky. 

Galloping over tumultuous clouds 

To tilt at the livid-lipped stars ; 

Galloping on through the turbulent night 

And over the rim of the world . . . 



Ill 



Oh, the toll of the rider in scarlet! 

The toll of the Red Dragoon! 

Windrows of charred black bones 

Strewn over a pocked and gutted land; 

Skeletons — once draped in the green 

Of leaf and the silken sheen of moss — 

Bare skeletons, bitter of laughter, 

Clattering through long white nights — 

Gray ghosts in a land of ravaged dead. 

Playing the bow of the wind futilely 

Over the once resonant fiddle, 

Striving again to beguile old melodies, 

Bemoaning the old sweet Aprils. 

O, fiddlers, scratching over the shattered box. 

And scraping over the tattered strings, 

Pray, conjure me a tune ! — the low call 

Of the last singing bird that is gone. 



DUST 

This much I know: 
Under the bludgeonings of snow 
And sleet and sharp adversity, 
From high estate 
The seemingly immortal tree 
Shall soon or late 
Go down to dust; 
When a wild wet gust 
Tumbles the gaunt debris 
Down from the gashed plateau 
And out upon the plain, 
The dust shall go 
Down with the rain; 
Rivers are slow, 
Rivers are fast, 
But rivers and rains run down to the sea, 
All rains go down to the sea at last. 

Ho! shake the red bough, 

And cover me now, 

Cover me now with dreams. 

With a blast 

Of falling leaves, with the filtered gleams 

Of the moon; 

27 



28 THE BOX OF GOD 

Shake the dead bough 

And cover me now. 

For soon 

, Rivers and rains shall go with me 

Down to the vast infinity. 



SWEETWATER RANGE 

I was loping along in the Sweetwater Range, 
When the shadowy clouds of sleep, 

On the blue earth had settled like raven's wings, 
With a swift mysterious sweep. 

The valley lay calm as a beaver-pond 
When the hunter's moon hangs low, 

And the hills were soft as the velvet sod 
Under an antelope doe. 

Serene overhead in the dusky blue, 

A single star through the night 
Glowed like a candle held by God 

As a friendly beacon-light ; 

A flame in the window of His vast house. 

Beckoning out to me — 
I could almost see Him peering down, 

As He waited expectantly. 

So I flung Him a couple of friendly songs, 

As I cantered a lonely mile: 
Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Old Black Joe, 

Jordan, and Beautiful Isle. 
29 



30 THE BOX OF GOD 

For the singing of psalms my voice was raw — 

I was never a parson's pet; 
And the tremolo wail of a shivering wolf 

Made it a strange duet. 

But hard on the echoes — from Avalanche Peak, 
Where the Yellowrock Cataract spills — 

I heard Him sing back to me clear as a bell 
In the frosty dawn of the hills. 



LEAVE ME TO MY OWN 

Oh, leave me to my own; 
Unglorified — perchance unknown, 
One of a nameless band 
Of gipsy cloud and silent butte and fir. 
Oh, let me stand 
Against the whipping wind, in the lavender 
Of dusk, like a mighty limber-pine 
At timber-line — 
Unyielding, stiff. 
Unbent of head 
Among the ageless dead — 
One with the mountain's cliff 
And the imperturbable stone. 

And when the winter gales intone 

Among my boughs a dread 

And melancholy sweep 

Of song, and some mysterious hand 

Brushes my heart 

In a mournful melody, weep 

No tear for me, nor moan — 

Pray, stand apart 

From me, and leave me to my own ; 

For in the high blue valleys of this land, 

When the afterglow 

31 



32 THE BOX OF GOD 

Lingers among the glaciers, I shall know 

Again the calm 

Of dusk, the dewy balm 

Of sleep, release 

From pain — and utter peace. 

Oh, leave me to the wild companionship 

Of firs that toss 

In the windy night and drip 

Their wild wet rains upon the moss; 

To the columbine 

That strives to slip 

Shyly among my roots and tip 

Its sparkling wine 

Upon my grassy shrine; 

To the brotherhood 

Of bending skies bestrown 

With stars above the soundless solitude — 

Of waterfalls that fling upon the night 

A stony broken music from their height — 

Oh, leave me to my own. 



MARCHING PINES 

Up the drifted foothills, 
Like phantoms in a row. 

The ragged lines of somber pines 
Filed across the snow. 

Down the gloomy coulees 
The burdened troopers went, 

Snowy packs upon their backs — 
Bowed of head and bent. 

Up the cloudy mountains, 
A mournful singing band, 

Marching aimless to some nameless, 
Undiscovered land. 



33 



YELLOW MOON 

O yellow moon, 
Drifting across the night 
As a rakish pirate brig, 
Tattered of rig 
And ghostly white. 
Goes floating down the black lagoon 
Of a dead sea — 
O pirate moon, 
Out of your hatch and hold 
Pour down your buccaneering beams, 
Your pirates, swaggering and bold. 
And bid them capture me; 
O ghostly moon. 
Carry me out to the farthest sweep 
Of the slow tides of sleep; 
Abandon me upon the gold 
Of some enchanted strand, 
Where the blue-flame comber gleams 
And breaks upon the sand; 
Oh, sail with me to a far land 
Of unremembered dreams. 



34 



TIMBER-LINE CEDAR 

Ho! patriarchal cedar, torn 
By bitter winds, and weather-worn. 
How came your countenance so sour. 
Disconsolate, and dour? 

In hermit-souls Tve never seen 
So gnarled and dolorous a mien — 
Such a mournful misanthrope 
Bereft of faith and hope. 

Can it be your figure spare 
Is due to slender mountain-fare? 
Your limbs awry with rheumatic pains 
From chilHng autumn rains? 

How came the choler-twisted mouth?— 
Wrangling with the wind and drouth? 
And how the beaten head and branch ?- 
Ruthless avalanche? 

What! Within your scanty shade, 
Sharing life with you, a blade ! — 
Sheltered by a withered root, 
A lupine at your foot! 
35 



36 THE BOX OF GOD 

Deceiver ! Holding in the bower 
Of your breast a fragile flower, — 
When every gesture seems to hint 
A heart of solid flint! — 



I know you now for what you are ! — 
A roguish beau, grown angular 
And gruff, but still at heart quite gentle, 
And highly sentimental. 



WHOOPING CRANE 

Oh, what a night it was for dreams : 
The bayou placid after rain; 

The pensive moon, the silver gleams — 
And among the reeds, a crane. 

Like a silver fountain fixed by frost, 
All night the stilted sleeping bird 

In frozen winter-sleep was lost; 
Never a feather stirred. 



Z*7 



LET ME FLOWER AS I WILL 

God, let me flower as I will! 
For I am weary of the chill 
Companionship of waxen vines 
And hothouse-nurtured columbines; 
Oh, weary of the pruning-knife 
That shapes my prim decorous life — 
Of clambering trellises that hold me. 
Of flawdess patterned forms that mold me. 

God, let me flower as I will! 
A shaggy rambler on the hill! — 
Familiar with April's growing pain 
Of green buds bursting after rain. 
Oh, let me hear among the sheaves 
Of autumn, the song of wistful leaves, 
The lullaby of the brook that dallies 
Among the high blue mountain valleys. 
And may my comrades be but these: 
Birds on the bough, and guzzling bees 
Among my blossoms, as they sup 
On the dew in my silver-petaled cup. 

God, let my parching roots go deep 
Among the cold green springs, and keep 
Firm grip upon the mossy edges 
38 



LET ME FLOWER AS I WILL 39 

Of imperishable granite ledges, 
That thus my body may withstand 
Vast avalanche of snow and sand. 
The trample of the years, the flail 
Of whipping wind and bouncing hail. 

And when December with its shroud 
Of fallen snow and leaden cloud. 
Shall find me in the holiday 
Of slumber, shivering and gray 
Against the sky — and in the end. 
My somber days shall hold no friend 
Save a whimpering wolf, and on the tree 
A frozen bird — so may it be. 
For in that day I shall have won 
The glory of the summer sun; 
My leaves, by windy fingers played. 
An eerie music shall have made ; 
I shall have known in some far land 
The tender comfort of a Hand, 
And the liquid beauty of a Tongue 
That finds its syllables among 
Wild wind and waterfall and rill— ^ 
God, let me flower as I will! 



OCTOBER SNOW 

Swiftly the blizzard stretched a frozen arm 

From out the hollow night — 
Stripping the world of all her scarlet pomp. 

And muffling her in white. 

Dead white the hills; dead white the soundless plain: 

Dead white the blizzard's breath — 
Heavy with hoar that touched each woodland thing 

With a white and silent death. 

In inky stupor, along the drifted snow, 

The sluggish river rolled — 
A numb black snake caught lingering in the sun 

By autumn's sudden cold. 



40 



INDIAN SUMMER 

When I went down the butte to drink at dawn, 

I saw a frozen lily by the spring, 
A ragged stream-line rank of whistling swan, 

And the swift flash of a willet's wing. 

And now comes a hint of winter in the air : 
Among the pensive valleys drifts a haze 

Of dusty blue, and the quaking-asp lies bare 
To the chill breath of hoary days. 

Farewell, my mountain-ash and goldenrod. 

For summer swoons in autumn's arms, and dies, 
As the languid rivers drowse and the asters nod 
Beneath the gray wind's lullabies. 

Farewell, my fleet-foot antelope and doe; 

Farewell, my wild companions of the hills — 
Soon in your winter-slumber you will go 

To a far land of singing rills. 

Soon by the fire I'll sit with quiet dreams; 

In the sinuous smoke, silver against the blue. 
That floats above the dusky vales and streams. 

My eyes will see the ghosts of you. 
41 



42 THE BOX OF GOD 

1*11 ride my night-patrols upon the peak — 
And the big wind among the firs, the lone 

Wandering wolf, and the waterfall will speak 
Of you in a language of their own. 

We'll miss you, blue-eyed grass and laughing brook ; 

In the spring on some high mesa we'll confer, 
And with shining eyes we'll trace your form, and look 

For you when your snowy blankets stir. 

Rest well, my comrades ; know that while you sleep, 
With eager hearts we'll listen for your song, 

And through the night a patient watch we'll keep 
For you — don't stay away too long. 



DROUTH 

The scorching embers of the sun 

All month had smoldered on the land, 

Until the lakes and marshes, one by one. 
Were pools of glistering sand. 

The pond-reeds rattled with each gasp 

Of wind like brittle yellow bones; 
Endless the pessimistic cricket's rasp 

Among the crumbling stones. 

The runnel, dribbling among the sheaves. 

Ran thin as a fragile silver thread. 
And Shoshone River rolled a stream of leaves 

Along its blistered bed. 

All day the sage, in dusty shrouds. 

Sucked at the alkali in vain; 
All night the mountains combed the scudding clouds 

Desperately for rain. 



43 



FISHER OF STARS 

My wild blood leaped as I watched the falling stars 
Flash through the night and gleam, 

Like spawning trout that hurtle the riffled bars 
Of a dusky mountain stream. 

Like quivering rainbow-trout that run in spring, 

Arching the water-slides, — 
Out of the limpid sky, in a wild wet fling, 

They shook their crimson sides. 

My sportsman's heart flamed up, as the fishes dashed 

In school on shimmering school, 
Through high cascades and waterfalls, and splashed 

In the deep of a cloudy pool. 

I fished that pond; I chose my longest line, 

And cast with my supplest rod — 
The one was a thing of dreams, oh, gossamer-fine; 

The other a gift from God. 

I flicked the Milky Way from edge to edge 

With an iridescent fly; 
I whipped the polar rapids, and every ledge 

And cut-bank in the sky. 
44 



FISHER OF STARS 45 

To the Pleiades I cast with my willowy pole ; 

And I let my line run out 
To the farthest foamy cove and skyey hole — 

And I raised a dozen trout. 

And every time one struck my slender hook, 

He shattered the trembling sea, 
With a sweep of his shivering silver fin, and he shook 

A silver rain on me; 

My line spun out, my fly-rod bent in twain. 

As over the sky he fought; 
My fingers bled, my elbows throbbed with pain — 

But my fishing went for naught. 

I landed never a one ; my line and hackle 

Were none too subtle and fine; 
For angling stars one wants more delicate tackle,^ 

A more cunning hand than mine. 



ALKALI POOL 

In the golden setting of the butte it lay. 

Deep emerald of hue; 
In the copper filigree of dying day 

It gleamed a sapphire-blue. 

And yet its stagnant waters held a hint 

Of alkali and lead — 
And the limpid spring seemed baleful with the glint 

Of the stone in a serpent's head. 



46 



OLD OAK 

Oh, you and I, old oak, beneath the leaden skies 
Of waning autumn, shall hold our ways together; 

For the hermit-thrush departs, and our fickle summer 
flies 
Before the hoary breath of sterner weather. 

Old oak forlorn and mournful, together we shall know 
A calm white death — ^the cold moon riding by. 

The silent winter-sleep beneath the soundless snow, 
The still companionship of starry sky. 

O mournful tree, why yearn with suppliant arms to 
hold 
The migrant bird ? Why weep with windy grief ? 
Why cling with great gaunt hands to the hollow charms, 
the cold 
And faded love of the last palsied leaf? 

Mourn not; for we shall know again the summer sun, 
New greener leaves, the vagrant bird, and the gleams 

Of bees that nuzzle the buds when the rains of April 
run. 
Grieve not ; for now is the time for quiet dreams. 



47 



LOOK FOR ME 

When the sinking sun 
Goes down to the sea, 
And the last day is done. 
Oh, look for me 
Beneath no shimmering monument, 
Nor tablet eloquent 
With stiff decorous eulogy; 
Nor yet in the gloom 
Of a chipped and chiseled tomb. 

But when the pregnant bud shall burst 

With April's sun, and bloom 

Upon the bough — 

Look for me now. 

In the sap of the first 

Puccoon whose fragile root, 

Bruised by the rain, 
Has left a crimson stain 
Upon the cedar-glade. 

Oh, look for me then. 
For I shall come again, 
In the leopard-lily's shoot, 



48 



LOOK FOR ME 49 

And in the green wet blade 
Of the peppergrass. 
When the warm winds pass 

Over the waking rills, 
And the wild arbutus spills 
Its fragrance on the air, — 

Look for me then — 
Asleep in a ferny glen 
High in the hills, 
Deep in the dew-drenched maiden-hair ; 
I shall be waiting, waiting there. 



PART III 

RED GODS 

Poems of Indian Theme 



IN THE LAND OF THE CHIPPEWAS 

Superior National Forest 
Upper Mississippi River 
Red Lake Indian Forest 
Pigeon River Reservation 



THUNDERDRUMS * 

An Indian War-medicine Dance 

I 

THE DRUMMERS SING I 

Beat on the buckskin, beat on the drums, 

Hi! Hi! Hi! for the Thunderbird comes; 

His eyes burn red with the blood of battle; 

His wild wings roar in the medicine rattle. 

Thunderbird-god, while our spirits dance, 

Tip with your lightning the warrior's lance; 

On shafts of wind, with heads of flame, 

Build for us arrows that torture and maim; 

Ho ! may our ironwood war-clubs crash 

With a thunderbolt head and a lightning flash. 

Hi ! Hi I Hi ! hear the Cut-throat's doom 

As our wild bells ring and our thunderdrums boom. 

♦For supplementary notes on this poem and the remaining 
poems in Part III, see Appendix, pages 75-88. 



53 



II 

Double-Bear Dances 

Hi! Hi! Hi 

My wild feet fly, 

For I follow the track 

Of a cowardly pack; 

Footprints here, 

Footprints there, — 

Enemies near ! — 

Taint in the air! 

Signs on the sod ! 

Ho! the Thunderbird-god 

Gives me the eye 

Of a hawk in the sky ! — 

Beat, beat on the drums. 

For the Thunderbird comes. 

Ho! Hoi 

Ho! Ho! 



54 



Ill 

JuM ping-River Dances 

Ho! hear me shout — 
A Pucker-skin scout 
With a nose that is keen 
For winds unclean. 
Look! Look! Look! 
At the distant nook, 
Where the hill-winds drift 
As the night-fogs lift: 
Ten smokes I see 
Of the Cut-throat Sioux — 
Ten ghosts there will be, — 
Ten plumes on my coup ; 
For my arms grow strong 
With my medicine-song. 
And a Pucker-skin scout 
Has a heart that is stout. 
Beat, beat on the drums, 
For the Thunderbird comes. 

Hdh-yah-ah-hdy ! 

Hdh-yah-ah-hdy ! 



55 



IV 

Ghost-Wolf Dances 

Ho! Ho! Ho! 

In the winds that blow 

From yonder hill, 

When the night is still, 

What do I hear 

With my Thunderbird ear? 

Down from the river 

A gray wolf's wail? 

Coyotes that quiver 

And slink the tail ? — 

Ugh! enemies dying, — 

And women crying! — 

For Cut-throat men — 

One, two . . . nine, ten. 

Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! 

The Spirit-winds blow, — 

Beat, beat on the drums 

For the Thunderbird comes. 

Ah'hah-hdy! 

Ah-hah-hdy! 



56 



Iron-Wind Dances: 

Over and under 

The shaking sky, I 

The war-drums thunder 

When I dance by ! — 

Ho ! a warrior proud, 

I dance on a cloud, 

For my ax shall feel 

The enemy reel; 

My heart shall thrill 

To a bloody kill, — 

Ten Sioux dead 

Split open of head ! — 

Look ! to the West ! — 

The sky-line drips, — 

Blood from the breast! 

Blood from the lips! 

Ho ! when I dance by. 

The war-drums thunder 

Over and under 

The shaking sky. 

Beat, Beat on the drums, 

For the Thunderbird comes. 

Wuh! 

Wuh! 



57 



VI 

The Drummers Sing: 

Beat on the buckskin, beat on the drums. 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! for the Thunderbird comes ; 

His eyes glow red with the lust for battle, 

And his big wings roar in the medicine-rattle. 

Thunder bird-god, while our spirits dance. 

Tip with your lightning the warrior's lance; 

On shafts of wind, with heads of flame, 

Build for us arrows that torture and maim; 

Ho ! may our ironwood war-clubs crash 

With a thunderbolt head and a lightning flash. 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! hear the Cut-throat's doom, 

As our wild bells ring and our thunderdrums boom. 



58 



INDIAN SLEEP-SONG 

Zhoo . . . zhoo, zhoo ! 
My little brown chief, 
The bough of the willow 
Is rocking the leaf ; 
The sleepy wind cries 
To you, close your eyes, — 
O little brown chief, 
Zhoo . . . zhoo, zhoo! 

Koo .... koo, koo! 
My little brown bird, 
A wood-dove was dreaming 
And suddenly stirred; 
A brown mother-dove, 
Dreaming of love, — 
O little brown bird, 
Koo .... koo, koo! 

Sh sh, sh! 

My little brown fawn, 
The snowflakes are falling,— 
The Winter-men yawn; 
They cover with white 



59 



6o THE BOX OF GOD 

Their children to-night, — 
O little brown fawn, 
Sh sh, sh! 

Hoo .... hoo, hoo! 
My little brown owl, 
Yellow-eye frightens 
Bad spirits that prowl ; 
For you she will keep 
A watch while you sleep, — 
O little brown owl, 
Hoo .... hoo, hoo! 

Zhoo . . . zhoo, zhoo! 
O leaf in the breeze. 
Koo .... koo, koo! 
Shy bird in the trees. 

Sh sh, sh! 

O snow-covered fawn. 
Hoo .... hoo, hoo! 
Sleep softly till dawn. 



TO A DEAD PEMBINA WARRIOR 

Killed by Indians in hostile territory and, at his 
request, given a tree-burial: i. e., wrapped in a bundle 
of birchbark and placed in the crotch of a tree. 

O warrior-soul, afloat 
Upon the seas of night 
In your ghostly birchen boat, 
Anchored upon the black limb, 
And etched against the white 
Of the broken hunter's moon, — 
O spirit, dark and dim. 
Draped with festoon 
Of moss, and shielded by lancing pines 
That ring their ragged lines 
Around the somber swamp, — 
Sleep without fear in your birchen shroud, 
Sleep with a heart secure and proud 
In your ghostly burial pomp. 
Know that the iron-hearted mountain-ash 
Lifts you with mighty arms 

Up to the proud flash 
Of the moon, holds you high 
In the unconquered sky, 
Secure in a starry cache, 



6i 



62 THE BOX OF GOD 

Safe from the harms 
Of the little peoples of the earth. 
Through soundless nights, with ghostly mirth, 
Echoing your crimson scalplng-cry 
From peak to peak, 
The lonely wolf will speak 
Of you and your many bloody wars. 
When white Bee-boan shall heap 
His snowy avalanche — 
Soft as the down of the Canada goose- 
In tufted drifts and bars 
On the black branch 
To keep you warm in winter-sleep, 
The wild feet of the stars 
Mirrored upon the frozen snow. 
Will dance for you, row on row; 
And when the hoary spruce 
Bends on your head, 
To whisper lullabies, to weep 
Sweet songs for the dead — 
Lo ! out of the white deep 
Of night the winter wind will sweep 

Down on your birchen bed. 
To wrap its arms about your clay, 
To carry you away 
To the land of your desires, 
To the country whence you came 

Like a flame, 
Back to the country of your sires. 
To a land of friendly council fires. 



MEDALS AND HOLES 

An Indian Council Talk 

Boo-zhoo nee-chee ! Me — Yellow-Otter, 
Vra going mak'-um big-talk, 'Spector Jone'. 

Look-see! — on chest I'm got-um golden medal; 
Got-um woman on medal ! Ho ! — good medal ! 

Me — I'm go on Washington long tam' ago ; 

Me — I'm tell-um Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, dose big w'ite 

chief : 
"Eenzhuns^ no lak*-um Eenzhun reservation; 
No good ! She's too much jack-pine, sand, and swamp." 
Big-chief, him say : "O-zah-wah-kig, you be good boy ! 
Go back to rese'vation. You tell-um tribe 
If Eenzhun stay on rese'vation, Washin'ton gov'ment 
Give-um all de Eenzhuns plenty payments, 
Give-um plenty good hats and suits o' clothes 
My heart is good to you ; you damned good Eenzhun. 
Me — I'm stick-um dis golden medal on your chest." 
Ho ! I'm walk-um home, I got-um medal — look-see ! 

But no got-um plenty good hats and suits o' clothes ; 

No got-um every year ; only every two year. 

Clothes no good ! Look-see ! Got-um clothes on now — 

1 Indians. 



64 THE BOX OF GOD 

No good! Got-um holes in legs — plenty-big holes 
Wit' not much clot' around ; and too much buttons off. 
Gov'ment clothes she's coming every two year — 
Long tarn' between, too much — wit' too much holes. 

Before de w'ite man come across big-water, 

In olden tarn', de Eenzhun got-um plenty clothes ; 

He mak'-um plenty suits wit' skins, — no holes. 

Even Shing-oos, dose weasel, Wah-boos, dose rabbit, 

Dey got-um better luck — two suits every year — 

Summer, brown-yellow suit ; winter, w'ite suit — 

No got-um holes. 

Wau-goosh and Nee-gig, dose fox and otter, 

Shang- way-she, dose mink, Ah-meek, dose beaver, 

Dey get-um plenty clothes, each year two suits — 

Summer, t'in clothes; winter, t'ick fur clothes — 

No got-um holes. 

Ah-deek, dose caribou, dose deer, and moose, 

In spring dey t'row away deir horns ; 

In summer dey get-um nice new hat — 

No got-um holes. 

Me — I'm big-smart man, smarter dan weasel. 

Smarter dan moose and fox and beaver — 

I got-um golden medal on chest from big-knife chief ; 

Me — I'm only got-um one suit clothes 

In two year — no-good clothes, no-good hats ! 

'Spector Jone*, you tell-um our big-knife Grandfader, 

so: 
"Yellow-Otter no got-um plenty good clothes; 

No got-um silk-black hat, no stove-pipes hat ; 

Him got-um plenty-much holes in Washin'ton pants." 



MEDALS AND HOLES 65 

Tell-um holes in pants now big, plenty-big — 
Bigger dan golden medal on chest ! 

So much— -dat's enough. 



How! How! 
Kay-get ! Kay-get ! 
Ho! Ho! Ho! 



FIRE-BENDER TALKS 

An Indian Council Talk 

Fire-Bender wants talk-um now 
On Treaty of E'ghteen E'ghty-nine. 

Major Rice, de gov'ment man, 

Him scratch on treaty, so: 

"When Eenzhun give-um up hees land. 

Wherever Eenzhun go and live, 

Den Washington mak*-it good for him 

So he can hunt all-tam' lak in olden tamV 

Comes now Minnesota game-warden. 

Police of deer and moose and fishing; 

He got-um silver star on chest, 

He got-um damn big mout*. 

He tak'-um on jail two Eenzhun boy 

She's kill wan deer, and den he say : 

" 'Cheebway, you no can hunt-um moose 

Or deer outside de hunting season ; 

You kill dose wash-kish, dose w*ite-tail deer, 

In summer, you pay-um fifty irons; 

Dat's 'gainst de big-knife's law ! 

In Treaty E'ghteen E'ghty-nine 



66 



FIRE-BENDER TALKS 67 

De 'Cheebway scratch-um 'way deir hunting rights." 
'Spector Taylo', you be smart man, — 
You fink dat Eenzhun she's damn-fool? 
You t'ink she's scratch-um Vay hees grub ! 
You t'ink she's give-um 'way hees right for live! 

Ugh ! 'Cheebway no can live except 

Wan way: on grub she's in de water 

And animal she's on land. 

Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Big-Spirit, 

Mak'-it so de w'ite man get-um grub 

By scratching ground wit' crazy-stick ; 

By making mud laugh up wit' plenty corn; 

By digging hole in granite rock 

And taking plenty copper-iron 

Out of de guts of ground. 

Same God He's mak'-um grub 

For all dose big-knife w'ite man. 

He's mak'-um grub for Eenzhuns ; 

He's mak'-um for Eenzhun all dose t'ing 

She's jump in water and on de land : 

He's mak'-um pickerel and w'itefish, 

O-gah, dose pike, and wee-bee-zheen, 

Dose skipjacks and silver tulibees; 

He's mak'-um sturgeon and mash-ke-non-zhay, 

And all dose fish she's walking in de lake. 

He's mak'-um deer and elk, she's running 

Wild in de timber and big mush-keeg ; 

He's mak'-um caribou and moose, 

She's feed in de lily in de river. 

Ho ! same big ma-ni-do 



68 THE BOX OF GOD 

He's mak'-um grub for big-knife chiren 
Mak'-um grub for Eenzhun chil'en. 

'Spector Taylo', you ask-um warden 

If she's forget-um dose olden treaty, 

You ask-um if w'ite man mak'-um newer treaty, 

Wit' God — if Big-Spirit scratch on paper so : 

"Only de w'ite man, beginning now, 

Belongs him de sea, de land, de sky. 

And all dose fish and animal and bird 

She's walk in de water, de ground, de air." 

Mebbe — mebbe dose big-knife warden 

She's got-um treaty-paper lak' dat ! Ho ! 

Me — I lak' see — me — dose paper ! 

So much I say — no more. 

Ho! Ho! 
Kay-get! 



MAPLE-SUGAR CHANT 
I 

H6-yo-h6-ho! yo-ho! 

Way-nah-bo-zhoo, big spirit of our brother, 
Come thou and bless us, for the maple flows. 
And the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us. 
The nights are white with frost; the days are yellow 
With sunshine, and now the sap of the maple tree. 
Humming the sugar-song, goes up the stem 
With dancing feet. The gabbling geese come tumbling 
Out of the wind and into the wet mush-keeg 
In clattering families ; among the reeds 
The fat old women-geese go chattering 
Of winter-lands ; and gathered on the shore. 
Shouting with hearts glad to be home again, 
The old men strut in council, and flutter and snort. 
Ah-chee-dah-mo, the spluttering tail-up squirrel. 
Pokes his blue whiskers from his hole in the oak. 
And scurries up and down the swaying branches — 
He runs in six directions, all over the earth, 
Hurrying, looking everywhere for somebody, 
Something he cannot find, — nor does he know 
Why the green wet days should be so bitterly sweet. 
Ho! the yellow birch throbs, for she knows the pain 
of life, 

69 



70 THE BOX OF GOD 

Of swelling limbs and bursting buds; she stands 
With naked arms stretched out to the warm gray rains, 
With hungry arms that tremble for her lover. 
For See-gwun, the Maker-of -little-children, who comes 
With soft blue feet that rustle the fallen leaves! — 
Hear thou the maple-water dripping, dripping, 
The cool sweet-water dripping upon the birchbark! — 
Ho ! the Moon-of- Sugar-Making is upon us ! 

H6-yo-h6-ho! yo-ho! 

Hear thou our prayers, O Brother, Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! — 
Hear, thou who hast made the flat green earth for us 
To dance upon, who dost fold us in thy hands 
Tenderly as a woman holds a broken bird 
In winter, thou our Brother who hast hung the sun 
Upon the sky to give us warmth and life, 
And the wet moon to make us cool and clean ; 
Hear, thou who hast made the hills and the timber- 
beasts 
That roam them, who hast made the sliding rivers 
And silver fish that shiver in the pools — 
That there might be wild meat for empty bellies; 
Hear, thou who hast made cold rapids in the canyons, 
Wild waterfalls, and springs in the cool green hollows — 
That there might be sweet water for parching tongues ; 
Hear, thou who hast given us thy mother, All-Mother 

Earth, 
That she might feed her children from her bosom — 
Ah-yee ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, come thou on this night 
With blessings as the maple-water flow^s; 
Make thou a song to our heavy-breasted mother, 



MAPLE-SUGAR CHANT 71 

And pray thou that her children may not hunger, 
For now is the night for maple-sugar feasting. 

H6-yo-h6-ho! yo-ho! 

From the long cold of winter moons, our eyes 

Are deep, our hands like the bundled veins and talons 

Of buzzard birds. Before the winter-winds 

The moose have run to other lands for feeding ; 

The rabbits have vanished as the snow — a plague 

Left a strange red sickness in their withered mouths. 

Even old Gahg, the clumsy porcupine, 

No longer finds his way to our roasting-pots, — 

We boil his yellow bone-ribs many times — 

Ugh! our teeth grow soft without strong meat to eat. 

Ho ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, hear thou our many tears 

Dropping among the dead leaves of winter ; 

Pray thou, and ask our grandmother, Waking-Earth, 

To take us in her arms, to make us warm 

With food, to hold us safe upon her bosom. 

Our mouths go searching for her mighty breasts, 

Where the maple-milk comes flowing from the trees, — 

Ah-yee! Brother, pray thou now the Mother-One 

To give us freely of her sugar-sap. 

The good sweet water of her bursting breasts- 

For the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us! 

H6-yo-h6-ho! yo-ho! 



II 



And if the sap flows thin with water, our hearts 

Will hold no bitterness ; for we shall know 

That long ago in thy wisdom thou didst decree 

That our mother's milk might never be too thick— ^ 

Fearing that we should gather plenty sugar 

With little labor and soon grow sick with food 

And slow to move our legs, like glutted bear — 

Ho ! we are a faithful children of the soil ; 

We toil with eager hearts and patient hands. 

And if our birchen baskets crack and leak 

The gathered sap, our tongues will speak no evil ; 

We know that thou, our Brother, in thy love 

For all the Otter-tails, didst whip the growing 

Birch tree until the bark was cracked and cut 

With round black stripes, — ^that our birchen pails might 

leak 
The golden sap, that thus all Indian children, 
Laboring long with many steps, might never 
Grow soft and fat with idling in the bush. 
Ho ! we are a faithful children of the soil ; 
We toil with eager hearts and patient backs. 

Hi! Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! Hear thou, O mighty one. 
Who dost fold us in his tender hands as a woman 
Holding a broken bird in the winter-wind, 

72 



MAPLE-SUGAR CHANT 73 

Come thou and bless us on this night of feasting ; 

Pray thou our mother to take us in her arms. 

To hold us warm upon her great brown bosom, 

To give us freely of her maple-water, 

The good sweet water of her swelling breasts. 

And if we labor long, our lips will speak 

No bitterness, for our arms are strong for hauling, 

Eager for many buckets of sweet sap. 

For sirup dancing its bubbles up and down 

In the kettles, to the bubble-dancing song. 

Ho ! for we are a faithful children of the soil ; 

We toil with trusting hearts and patient fingers — 

And now is the Moon-of -Maple- Sugar-Making 

H6-yo-h6-ho! yo-ho 



.1 



APPENDIX 

The following supplementary notes concerning the 
poems of Indian theme in Part III, '"red gods/' may 
prove helpful to the reader who is unfamiliar with 
the American Indian by providing for the poems a 
background of Indian legends, customs, and traditions. 



RED GODS 

Although the life of the North American Indian is 
rich with poetic concepts, he has no special form of 
expression called poetry. His poetic thought may be 
discovered in his songs, his rituals, and his ceremonies, 
occasionally as a minor element in a feast or a chant, 
but generally as a vital part of the ceremony, suffusing 
it with color. Poetic beauty, sometimes simple and 
stark but very real, enfolds all his modes of expression, 
his songs and dances, his religious practices, his feasts 
and chants, his superstitions and folklore and legends. 
In a sense his poetry is implied, rather than expressed. 

Obviously, a literal translation or a transcription of 
an Indian song or ceremony is inadequate. Few words 
may be uttered in the course of a medicine-dance lasting 
an hour ; nevertheless, the event will be highly signifi- 
cant to those who comprehend the philosophy, the 
religion, and the psychology of the Indian, the spirit of 
his music, of his symbols, of his pantomime and his 
dancing. 

I wish to emphasize the fact, therefore, that the poems 
in Part III, '"red gods/^ are not translations or tran- 
scriptions; they are in no sense derivative. They are 
original poems in which I have sought to capture and 
to communicate something of the poetic beauty and the 
spiritual significance of Indian ceremonies — war dances, 

77 



78 BOX OF GOD 

lullabies, council-talks, and seasonal chants — as they are 
revealed to one whose kinship with the Indian, and 
whose experience with Indian life in its setting of 
mountain and forest, make him peculiarly responsive 
to Indian thought and feeling. I have not hesitated to 
depart greatly from the original ceremonies whenever 
it became necessary to set out the myth, the tradition, 
or the practice that gives point and poignance to a song. 
I have endeavored steadily, however, to keep true to 
the pecuharities of Indian idiom, expression, and 
philosophy, to the psychology of the Indian, and to 
his peculiar outlook upon life, and true to the genuine 
Indian type of to-day and of the past fifty years. 



THUNDERDRUMS 

Page 53 

The ceremony upon which the poem, "Thunder- 
drums," is based illustrates the futility of translation. 
The poem is a broad interpretation of a war-medicine 
dance that was performed often in the old Indian 
fighting days by the Chippewas as a part of their 
preparations for war with the Sioux, their bitter 
enemies. This ancient war-dance has been preserved 
by some of the Chippewas and is performed occasionally 
by the Red Lake Chippewas and other equally remote 
Indians, even in these modern peaceful days. 

While the Chippewa chiefs and braves danced in the 
ring, during the war-dance, the medicine-men made 
war-medicine; by means of their chants and strong 
medicines they would render the warriors immune from 
injury and death; they would invoke the aid of the 
powerful spirits and gods, especially of the Thunder- 
bird ; and thus they would strengthen the fighting hearts 
of the braves for fearless struggles and for heroic 
deeds. 

A war-dance may continue for hours; yet in the 
entire period no specific words may be uttered, with 
the exception of a defiant war-whoop, or an exultant 
"Ah-hah-hay !" or "Hah-yah-ah-hay !", or a blood- 
curdling shout. Yet consider all that transpires : hours 
of dancing, posturing, and pantomime; meaningful 

79 



8o BOX OF GOD 

singing and drumming, varying in spirit and purpose 
from time to time; medicine-making and invocations 
to the gods, — all of which is so significant and real to 
the warriors in the dancing-ring that they become trans- 
ported and frenzied in their will for battle. 

Occasionally in the course of a dance, especially in 
the war-dance, an individual in the group may do a 
sort of solo dance. By means of gesture and posture, 
impersonation, and pantomime, he may enact a dramatic 
scene ; he may tell the story of a former battle in which 
he killed an enemy in a hand to hand struggle ; he may 
portray his method of scouting, or his power as a war- 
rior ; he may show how he will track, attack, and destroy 
his enemies ; he may impersonate animals and wounded 
men, and enact a score of dramatic incidents relevant to 
the ceremony. The dance pantomime is the root of 
Indian drama, the only form of drama known to the 
early American Indians, with the exception of certain 
seasonal dances and religious ceremonies — ^and these 
are simply elaborations of the more common dance 
pantomimes. In "Thunderdrums" — Sections II-V, 
"Double-Bear Dances," "Jumping-River Dances," 
"Ghost-Wolf Dances," and "Iron-Wind Dances"— I 
have sought to capture the spirit of four solo dances or 
pantomimes typical of many others in the old war- 
medicine ceremonies. 

The Thunderbird, to which many references are made 
in the poem, is one of the most powerful of the 
spirits, a force in the lives of most Chippewas and 
in the conjurings of the medicine men. The Thunder- 
bird comes to the world in electrical storms ; he shows 



APPENDIX 8i 

himself when the black clouds gather on the horizon, 
when the sky rumbles with thunder, and when the fiery 
bolts and the jagged lightnings flash overhead. 

The words "Cut-throat" and "Pucker-skin" are terms 
used occasionally to characterize respectively the Sioux 
and the Chippewa. The meaning of the other Chippewa 
words and phrases in this poem and in the remaining 
poems in the group may be gathered from their context ; 
whenever an Indian word is used, its equivalent in 
English may be found generally in the same line. The 
spelling, syllabification, and the marks of emphasis 
convey the accurate pronunciation of all the Indian 
words. 

The expressions. Ho! Ho!, Ah-hah~hdy!, Hdh-yah- 
ah-hdy, and Wuh! are typical Chippewa explosives and 
ejaculations of approval by the audience. 



INDIAN SLEEP-SONG 
Page 59 

In the lodges of the more remote and less civilized 
Chippewas one may still see Indian cradle-boards, and 
hear old Indian lullabies. The word cradle-board sug- 
gests the purpose of the tik-in-ah-gun as it is called; 
it is a basswood board on which the Indian baby is 
bound with beaded cloth and buckskin, and it serves 
as a carrying-board and a cradle. When the mother 
wishes her baby to fall asleep, she improvises a ham- 
mock from blankets swung between two lodge-poles, 
places in it the cradle-board to which the baby is lashed, 
and sings while she swings the hammock and board to 
and fro. 

The lullabies of the Indian mother are in spirit much 
like those of the white woman, save that they possess 
a plaintive minor note, and contain very few words — 
other than the syllables "We-we, we-we,'* or "Way- 
way, way-way." In *Tndian Sleep-Song" I endeavored 
to catch the spirit of a typical Indian lullaby, and the 
rh3rthm of a swinging cradle-board. 



82 



TO A DEAD PEMBINA WARRIOR 

Page 6i 

Among some of the tribes it was the custom to dispose 
of the dead by placing them in trees, sometimes for a 
few months until the ground thawed sufficiently for the 
digging of graves, and sometimes permanently. In the 
tree-burial practice, the dead Indian was wrapped about 
with an inner layer of blankets and an outer layer of 
birchbark which was sewn with fibers or buckskin and 
sealed with pitch ; the birchbark coffin was then placed 
on a scaffold in the crotch of a tree. 

"To a Dead Pembina Warrior" is not an Indian 
song or chant, but a poem written to an Indian chief 
who was killed by his enemies in hostile territory, and 
who, in compliance with his last request, was given a 
tree-burial. 



^2 



MEDALS AND HOLES 

FIRE-BENDER TALKS 
Page 66 

The character of the Indian is revealed in his chants 
and legends and rites, but nowhere more peculiarly than 
in his council oratory. Therefore, in order to present 
various phases of the Indian that do not occur in his 
songs, I have included in this group of chants these 
two council-talks. They are not translations, but 
original poems that typify Indian complaints and 
grievances as they find expression in councils, and that 
suggest certain mental and emotional phases of the 
Indian. 

For obvious reasons the two poems were written in 
the broken pidgin-English dialect that a not too civilized 
mixed-blood interpreter would use, rather than in the 
smooth and rhetorically precise language of the white 
man. With few exceptions official interpreters who 
have translated addresses made in government councils, 
historians who have recorded some of the famous Indian 
orations, and novelists and playwrights who have sought 
to create the beauty of Indian speech, have lost the 
flavor and the spirit of genuine Indian oratory. In 
their eagerness to intensify the romantic element and 
to make the speech of the Indian more easily compre- 



APPENDIX 85 

hended by the white man through the use of rhetorical 
devices peculiar to the white man rather than to the 
Indian, they have made his utterances so smooth, suave, 
and rhetorically pretty, and so impressive with the 
grand manner and the studied theatrical attitude, that 
the few examples of Indian oratory in the English 
language are more white man than Indian. The Indian 
has been made too completely ideal and romantic; the 
poetry of his speech, its naivete and simplicity, its 
humor both broad and subtle, its tragedy and elemental 
power, and its crude wild beauty — these have been 
smothered and lost in rhetorical elegance. 

As a result, notwithstanding four hundred years of 
contact with the red man, the American is for the most 
part unaware of the significant primitive poetry of 
Indian expression. At best the examples of the ora- 
tory of the Indian are few ; and the few too often have 
lost the genuine Indian spirit. Moved, therefore, by a 
desire to preserve and to communicate the less romantic, 
but perhaps more vital phases of his speech, I oifer 
these two council-talks with the hope that their loss in 
fluency, polish, and artistry due to the difficult broken 
dialect in which they are written, may be offset by 
their gain in spontaneity and naturalness, in ruggedness 
and primitive power, and in the stark simple beauty of 
truth. 

The frequent references to "the golden medal" in 
"Medals and Holes" goes back to the days when the 
Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, the "Big Chief", — of the white man, 
— ^the President, seeking to win the friendship and the 
support of influential chiefs, frequently awarded them 



86 BOX OF GOD 

medals. Indians have always been childlike in their 
love of honors and ornaments ; the medals presented by 
the government were therefore greatly prized by them, 
especially if the decorations were large and shiny and 
impressive. In the course of a friendly visit with an 
old chief, he may show me his most precious possessions, 
his ceremonial garb and his relics; invariably he re- 
serves his medal for the last great moment and presents 
it proudly as his most telling exhibit. 

The expressions, Ho! Ho! and How! How! mean 
broadly "Good ! Good !", and they have the same signifi- 
cance as the applause of audiences of white men. 
Kay-get! Kay-get! is a vehement ejaculation of ap- 
proval common among the Chippewas, in one sense like 
the white man's exclamation, **You're right! You're 
right!" 



MAPLE-SUGAR CHANT 

Page 69 

The Indian is vitally dependent upon nature, for his 
life touches the wilderness at every point. His so- 
called pagan religion is based entirely upon a spiritual 
conception of nature in her manifold forms and moods. 
Living as he does, therefore, in constant communion 
with the wilderness — the source of his religious inspira- 
tion — most of his acts, and his rites and dances and 
songs possess a profound spiritual note, a high spiritual 
color. Whenever an Indian goes hunting and kills 
a bear, he offers up a prayer to the spirit who is known 
as the Chief-of-the-Bears ; he explains the necessity 
that drove him to kill one of the Bear-Chief's subjects, 
he expresses his sorrow, and he thanks the Ruler-of- 
the-Bears for permission to take one of his children. 
If the sky is ominous with low black clouds and sud- 
den lightnings, and the pines bend and groan with 
storm-winds, the Thunderbird-spirit is coming; and 
perforce the devout Indian will toss a handful of tobacco 
on the fire as a peace offering to the Thunderbird and 
make a prayer to placate him. If the spirit-helper of 
an Indian lives in the Norway pine-tree, the Norway 
pine is "good medicine" ; and whenever he encounters a 
particularly beautiful pine, he will stop to commune 
with it. In autumn the tribe may hold a great feast, 

87 



88 THE BOX OF GOD 

thank the Big- Spirit for the rich harvest, and ask him 
to protect the several families in the band through the 
winter from sickness and poverty and starvation. In 
the spring the band may hold a feast-dance in honor of 
the Big-Spirit, thanking him for his help through the 
long cold months, and asking him to make a good sum- 
mer, bountiful with fish and game and fruit and wild 
rice. Thus a very deep and very real spiritual feeling 
marks many of the simple daily acts and most of the 
tribal ceremonies of these primitive people, who, by the 
unthinking few of an alien race, are erroneously 
termed pagans. 

"Maple-Sugar Chant" is based on a seasonal cere- 
mony that illustrates clearly the spiritual significance 
of Indian ceremonies. When the first warm days and 
frosty nights of the spring-thaws arrive, the Indians 
pack their kettles, buckets, and household goods and 
move to the maple-sugar bush. There they build their 
weeg-i-wams, or lodges, and prepare to make the yearly 
supply of maple-sugar. 

Before they embark on the business of making 
sugar, however, a feast must be given to Mother Earth, 
and to Way-nah-bo-zhoo, a powerful legendary char- 
acter regarded by the Chippewas as a guardian spirit, 
as a kind of big brother of all the Chippewa Indians. 
Several very old women first gather a few buckets of 
the early run of maple-sap — and they must avoid touch- 
ing or tasting the sap. When the fluid has been boiled 
down, the sugar is set aside for the ceremony to be held 
later in the day. In the evening, around the huge fire, 
a feast is spread for all the families in the camp. One 



APPENDIX 89 

place is left vacant; a platter of the sugar especially 
prepared by the old women is set at that place for 
Way-nah-bo-zhoo whose spirit will come out of the 
night during the ceremony, to join in the feast, to eat 
the maple-sugar prepared for him, and to bless the tribe 
with a good sugar season, with a great run of rich and 
plentiful sap. "Maple-Sugar Chant" is an interpreta- 
tion of the spirit of this ceremony — not of the specific 
chants and utterances, for these are few and unimpor- 
tant in themselves — but rather of the spiritual signifi- 
cance of this seasonal feast. 

THE END 



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